


A Fire Greater Than Thou Knowest

by simaetha



Series: radiance [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alignment Swap, Established Relationship, Gratuitous Fix-It, M/M, don't worry it gets worse eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the AU where Sauron decided not to join Melkor, the Darkening still happens. But events proceed rather differently from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fire Greater Than Thou Knowest

**Author's Note:**

> Presented with thanks to the anon who suggested this in the first place.
> 
> Quenya names used, partly because it felt weird to use Sindarin names when none of the characters actually speak Sindarin yet, partly because I enjoy that sort of thing. I recognise this can be kind of alienating so [here](http://simaethae.tumblr.com/post/133715450002/quenya-name-list-for-the-fic-im-about-to-post) (for ease of keeping it open in a tab) is a list of the names you won't find in the published Silmarillion against their more familiar equivalents, in order of appearance.

Night, for the first time in over a thousand years. The southern wall is shattered, sharp-edged fragments of stone scattered about the breach, broken along deep cracks in the foundations; the main gate forced, wood burned and charred. A deeper darkness still pools there, clinging stickily to the threshold, evaporating in slow, smokelike coils.

The body is already gone, buried with scant, uncertain ceremony; traditions dragged out of memory from the Great Journey, a time when death hunted the Eldar, now no more than story and song to all but the eldest among them. There had been little weeping. Even Fëanáro only stood, silent, as the grave was filled in, a terrible flame of anger in his face, fists clenched to stop his hands from shaking.

Pausing for a moment to press his fingers between his eyes, feeling exhaustion pressing down on him, Tyelperinquar turns when he feels the presence approach, tiredness suddenly falling away; puts out his hands towards the other without thinking, as Mairon sweeps towards him, barely throwing a nod to the other Elves nearby.

" _Are you alright -_ "

"Yes, but what's _happening_ \- "

Mairon takes his hands, and Tyelperinquar returns his grasp, the familiar warmth of Mairon's skin reassuring; finds himself smiling, relieved, despite everything, by the other's arrival.

The torchlight casts the scene in a strange, red-gold glow, the shadows long and black. The remaining lamps that once lit the inner rooms of the house and blazed light from its windows have been dredged from the rubble, and set around to illuminate the hurried packing and salvage; but these are all too few for the vast darkness, and the air is hot with flame, improvised torches and braziers set around them, fires burning against the night.

"Tyelperinquar - " Mairon says, and draws him closer, so that they lean together for a moment, foreheads pressed together, close enough to share each other's breath; a brief contentment snatched from the chaos around them. "I knew - but I _am_ glad, to see you well."

"I'm _fine_ ," Tyelperinquar says; and feels, more than sees, Mairon smile, before he steps back, meeting the other's eyes. "But - Great-Grandfather Finwë - "

"I know, I _heard_ ," Mairon says, looking sympathetic. "How terrible for you all; you must grieve for him deeply."

"Yes, but - Mairon, what _is_ happening in Valimar? Melkor - _Moringotto_ \- came here, after the light faded, and - he took _everything_ , the whole treasury's been emptied out, not just the Silmarils. And there was something _else_ in the darkness, some other Power - "

"One of his vile followers, no doubt," Mairon says, mouth twisting with contempt. "Some _thing_ that crawled over the Walls of Night in his wake - or crept out of some dank pit beneath Utumno, after it was cast down. We never did scour all of them out."

"So what's - Grandfather said the Valar wouldn't _do_ anything, so do you know - ?"

" _No_ , more's the pity. You may be aware," Mairon says, "that I am not very much in Aulë's confidences, of late. As far as I can tell, they're still _contemplating_ at the Máhanaxar." His mouth half-curves, ironic.

"But, Tyelpe - what's happening _here_? Is your family coming back to Tirion?"

"Yes, but - Mairon, we're _leaving_. We always talked about - it's been _enough_ , the Valar have _shown_ they can't protect us and they never had any right to be our rulers. We're going back to Middle-earth and we're going to _fight_ \- "

"You're _what_?" Mairon snaps. He narrows his eyes at Tyelperinquar, the light glinting amber in his hair; in the firelight he seems almost to glow, his presence luminous. " _Tyelperinquar_ -"

"So what were you _expecting_ us to do?" Tyelperinquar says, raising his chin and meeting Mairon's eyes, his own gaze steady. His dark hair falls unbound past his shoulders; he shakes it impatiently back, brushing a hand through the loose waves. "We're not just going to let the Enemy get away with this. Middle-earth should always have been _ours_ , we're going to take it back and reclaim the Silmarils for _ourselves_ \- "

"Your faith in your family's ability to do what the Valar failed at is charming but impractical. Tyelpe, you can't _fight Melkor_ \- "

"Oh, can't we?" Tyelperinquar asks, narrowing his own eyes at Mairon in turn. "Are _you_ going to start ordering us around now, too - I thought you _agreed_ \- "

"I _agreed_ ," Mairon says, "that it was a mistake to abandon Endórë - that to make a walled garden of Aman and leave the rest of the world in darkness was negligent at best - but I did _not_ agree that you and your family should try to _attack_ the strongest of the Powers - "

The argument is starting to attract attention, the discreet privacy granted to them by the other Elves in the courtyard faltering; some distance away, by the worst of the shattered wall, Tyelperinquar's father glances over, distracted from his urgent discussion with the steward. Tyelperinquar makes a noise of frustration, and takes Mairon by the wrist, pulling him along into the wing of the house left standing, the walls and roof hastily shored up against the breakage and cracks.

" _Fine_ ," he says, dragging the other through into a more-or-less undamaged room and shoving the door closed behind them. The windows are still intact, but a glitter of broken glass is strewn across the floor, from no clear source; the room is half-lit by the glow of fires from outside, the remaining furniture an outline of oblongs and shadows. "What do _you_ think we should do, Mairon - let me know, because if you're changing your mind when we have more reason than _ever_ \- "

"Yes, I'm sure your delightful idealism will be terribly _effective_ against Melkor. What are you planning to _do_ , Tyelperinquar, do you think you can strike down a Power with one of those _swords_ your family made - "

"And what choice do _you_ think we have? Better to _try_ than to give up before we've even started - do you have an actual _alternative_ , or do you think we should just bow our heads and wait for the Valar to sort it all out, as they've shown themselves _entirely incapable_ of doing - "

Mairon - hisses, eyes molten gold even in the dim reflected light; makes a jerky, interrupted motion, then turns on his heel and begins to pace, shards of glass crunching beneath his feet.

"You've no notion of what you're talking about," he says, abruptly. " _None_ of you have - you've never seen Melkor in his power; you don't know what it _means_ , that we called him He Who Arises In Might.

"Do you think the lying face he showed you here is all he _is_? Picture that shattered wall outside a thousand times over: picture mountains great as the Pelóri, broken just like that, but smoking and burning, fire rising up from the depths. Ice-flows the size of mountains, carving their way into the earth; or scorched salt wastes, land rendered desert where nothing grows - "

"Oh, yes," Tyelperinquar says, clear and cool, grey eyes bright with anger. "We Children knew nothing of that, and had no notion he could be _dangerous_. How gracious of you, Mairon, to instruct us on this matter - "

" _Then let me offer you instruction_ ," Mairon says, sharply, turning to face Tyelperinquar again in a swift flow of motion. "I was _there_ at the siege of Utumno, Tyelperinquar, when your ancestors were new-woken at Cuiviénen; when to break down Melkor's defences Aulë broke the earth itself beneath them, and the sea rushed in.

"Is that a thing you _understand_ , Tyelperinquar, or is this only words to you?" He carries on, not allowing pause for a response. "If I say his servants fled before the light in Varda's face, what does that _mean_ to your ears? And we followed after - and the _things_ in those pits, Tyelpe.

"Twisted animal mockeries, so ill-made their own lives pained them; and they bit and clawed at their own flesh when they had no prey - and yet, I call them _animal_ , but mad and vicious though they were, there were some that would still try to speak - "

"Are you trying to _scare_ me?" Tyelperinquar snaps. "Tell me again, Mairon, how only you great Ainur are capable of anything; how we can do no more than sit at your feet, and beg for protection! _My great-grandfather lies buried outside_ , for all the good your _protection_ does - "

"Of course," Mairon says; he gives a sudden smile, vicious. "Forgive me, Tyelpe - I can see how I've insulted you. I had thought, perhaps, that you didn't _want_ to join him - but I see now how you admire the fool who threw his life away and achieved nothing by it; what an _excellent_ example he provides - "

"Is _that_ how it is, then?" Tyelperinquar asks, the colour standing high in his cheeks. "Is _that_ what you think of us, Mairon - "

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mairon says, still smiling, despite the glitter of his eyes. "Don't let me spoil your plans, Tyelpe. I'm certain you'd make a _lovely_ Orc."

" _Fine_ ," Tyelperinquar says, hot with fury. He turns to leave, moving for the door. "I'm glad I know where I stand with you, now, at least - "

A moment, and then -

Mairon moves almost too fast to register, standing between him and the door, raising his hands to Tyelperinquar's shoulders.

" _Tyelpe_ \- "

"I won't be told," Tyelperinquar says, "that there's _nothing_ we can do - "

"Will you _listen_ to me - "

"- so you can either make yourself _useful_ , Mairon, or you can _leave_ , but I won't let you _stand there and lecture me_ \- "

"You're being _wilfully self-destructive_ ," Mairon snaps; and surges forward to cut off Tyelperinquar's answer by capturing his mouth and drawing him into a kiss.

They sway together, kissing angry and hard, Tyelperinquar's hand coming up to cup the line of Mairon's jaw before he breaks away with a gasp, panting for breath.

"You are the most _condescending_ \- "

"You _stubborn_ \- "

None too gently, Tyelperinquar moves, shoving Mairon back against the wall beside the door and kissing him again, biting at his lower lip, hard enough to make Mairon shudder and dig his fingers into the line of Tyelperinquar's shoulders, pressing his nails in through the fabric of his clothing.

"So _help_ us - " Tyelperinquar says, and Mairon snarls, pulling him closer.

" _Yes,_ then, if you won't have anything else from me - _yes_ ," he says; and then their mouths join once more, the kiss deepening, Mairon reaching up to fist his hands into Tyelperinquar's hair as Tyelperinquar leans into him, eyes sliding half-closed in the dim light.

***

"I have a _duty to our people_ \- "

"You have a _duty_ not to allow our people to be drawn into your brother's _madness_ \- "

" _Anairë_ \- "

" _Fine_ ," Anairë says, pale with rage, her eyes wet. "I'll speak to you again, Nolofinwë, when you've come to your senses - or if not, then I hope you think of this moment, when Fëanáro leads you all into disaster - "

She turns and sweeps from the room, her braids swirling out behind her as she slams the door; but not quickly enough to prevent her husband seeing her put her hand over her mouth as she starts crying, the half-choked sobs of someone humiliated by their own tears.

"I hope you think of this when you realise you're being a _coward_ \- !" Írissë shouts after her. "Father, you're not - "

" _Írissë_ ," Nolofinwë snaps. "Don't talk about your mother that way - "

"But Father," Findekáno starts, "do you really think - "

Nolofinwë takes a breath, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Enough!" he says. "Children, a _moment_."

The silvered light from the Mindon Eldaliéva filters through the tall windows, paler and weaker than Telperion's. It should, Nolofinwë thinks, be past the hour of the Mingling now; but in the darkness and amid the anger and terror that have characterised the time since the Trees went out, the hours have become difficult to track.

 _Oh, Fëanáro_ , he finds himself thinking, wearily. _If only_ \- but it's a familiar thought, love and regret worn down into an unidentifiable ache in his chest, the old childhood admiration for his brother mingled with a deeper and more adult disappointment.

He breathes again, striving to calm himself. When he looks up, Findekáno at least looks mildly embarassed, shifting from foot to foot; Írissë, however, is sulky but undeterred.

"Alright," he says. "Findekáno, where's your brother?"

"Off with Findaráto - "

"Fine. Írissë, what do you know about what Fëanáro's been doing?"

"Preparing to _leave_ ," Írissë says, "like _we_ should be - "

"We still have time for that. Let's _discuss_ this, children."

"What's to _discuss_ -?" Írissë asks, impatient. "Are we going or aren't we? Uncle's _right_ , I don't see why we should stay here when - "

"When here is our home, and the land my father led us to, and where the Valar have blessed us with their protection?" Nolofinwë asks. "Fëanáro might have the luxury of making a theatrical production of his grief, and swearing grand oaths - as if Arafinwë or I loved Father any less - but some of us think about people other than ourselves.

"I want Moringotto - and _that's_ a word I'll adopt from Fëanáro gladly - to suffer for what he's done as much as anyone, but hastening away on some wild quest - "

"It's not _like_ that, Father - "

"But Father, he's _right_ , even if - "

"Right about _what_ , Findekáno?" Nolofinwë asks. "That the Valar plan to supplant us in Middle-earth with some other race? Children, when have the Valar ever wronged us - "

"That Middle-earth _should_ be ours! Why should we hide away here, when the Trees we came for are gone, and the light stolen away - "

"And Tirion belongs to some other people?" Nolofinwë says, mildly. "Findekáno, your mother is entirely correct that left to himself, Fëanáro will lead us all into disaster. He won't intend to, of course. He thinks, doubtless, that all my objections are mere jealousy and fear - as if only _jealousy_ could have anyone think him less than a fit king for the Noldor. But Fëanáro has never once encountered his own limits, and so believes he has none; and it will take nothing less than catastrophe for him to learn that he is wrong.

"Let Fëanáro bring catastrophe on himself, then, if he won't listen to reason. But I _won't_ see him bring it upon our people, too - "

"Well, I won't sit at home crying about it, even if you and Mother will!" Írissë snaps. " _I'm_ going, and if you're not then I'll just go ask Uncle if he'll let me come along - "

"Írissë, daughter - "

" _Be_ that way, I don't care! I'm going to _pack_ ," Írissë says, raising her voice, and shoves her way out through the door. "See you, Findo, if you're not _afraid_ too - "

" _Írissë_ \- "

The door swings closed behind her, and Nolofinwë sighs, before turning back to his son, who meets his gaze, slightly abashed but stubborn nonetheless.

"And you, Findekáno?" he asks. "Do you agree with your sister?"

"It's not - Father," Findekáno says. "I agree with you, that Uncle isn't entirely thinking straight just now - but doesn't that just mean it's _our_ duty to be there as well? Shouldn't we be _there_ for people?"

"And if we go," Nolofinwë asks, "and because of that, many of our people follow us who might otherwise have stayed - "

"I think," says Findekáno, "that it's not just Írissë who's going to go _anyway_ ," and Nolofinwë sighs again, feeling more tired than ever.

***

In better times, the square would have gleamed in the Treelight, intricate jewelled mosaics patterning the ground; a place for singing-competitions, or to demonstrate someone's newest invention, or where children might play in the clear waters of the fountain - but instead the cold lamplight washes colours out, and the square is deserted, the Noldor of Tirion occupied elsewhere as all but a few prepare to leave.

Mairon cuts across it on his way to the city gates, his steps echoing against the stone walls of the buildings around him as he absently contemplates logistics. It _ought_ , he thinks, to be possible to allocate resources more efficiently, if -

"So _there_ you are," a woman says, stepping out from a gate ahead of him, glowing white light emanating from the gemstone she carries with her, hanging from a silver chain looped carelessly around her wrist. "You haven't made yourself easy to speak with, Mairon Aulendil."

A pause, then Mairon inclines his head, coolly respectful. "You could have found me easily enough, Nacindë of Tirion, had you searched out your son's companions. But perhaps there were others you preferred not to encounter, among the following of Fëanáro."

"Yes, I know it goes against custom in my husband's family - as perhaps you've discovered - but I prefer not to air _all_ my disagreements with him at high volume in front of our son in the public square."

Mairon gives her a considering look, but she continues on, undeterred.

"I understand Fëanáro's motivations, Mairon. I can even sympathise. And Curufinwë - well, his mother didn't call him _Atarinkë_ for nothing. But I thought _you_ might have better sense than to let Tyelpe get caught up in all this."

"Your assessment of my intelligence is certainly gratifying."

"That wasn't actually a compliment. I suppose we've all seen that the Ainur are fallible, but if you can't see what a doomed venture this all is - "

"You are," says Mairon, "rather underestimating your son, if you think that I am _letting_ him do anything."

They gaze at each other for a moment, Nacindë's dark brows drawing together as she frowns, before her expression clears, and she gives Mairon a thin smile.

"Do you," she asks, "have an hour or so?"

***

Nacindë's garden is brightly lit, lamps hung from wires strung between the high walls; foliage overflows from neatly-arranged flowerbeds and pokes up through the cracks in the paving, exuberant. Jasmine crawls over the walls, the flowers open outside the normal hours of their blooming, filling the air with heavy scent.

Seated on the wide bench, Mairon stretches his legs out in front of him and takes a sip of wine from his glass, one elbow propped against the backrest, before holding it up to the light to examine the delicate layer of gilding above the stem. Across from him, Nacindë sits cross-legged on the edge of the fountain, her own glass in hand, back very straight.

"The problem _is_ ," she says, gesturing, "that I don't think any of them have the first idea how to _compromise_ ; or to accept a lesser defeat in exchange for a greater victory. _Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords_ \- I can hear Makalaurë's hand in that, can't you? There's _power_ there. But I wonder what _love_ Fëanáro thinks is likely to keep him from Moringotto."

"Do you?" Mairon says, abstract; he continues to study the way light refracts through the glass with detached interest. "Don't be disingenous, Nacindë."

A pause. Nacindë slowly sets her glass down beside her; closes her eyes for a moment.

"Yes," she says. "I didn't want to think it, but - I didn't realise things between him and Nolofinwë had become _that_ bad."

"It's a warning, as much as anything, I believe," Mairon says, still casual; he takes another sip of wine, and tilts the glass in his hand, watching the movement of the liquid. "One could wish Fëanáro had chosen a less irrevocable way to go about it, of course. Calling upon that which lies outside the world is likely to have - unpredictable effects."

"Do you think - " Nacindë says, and then stops, biting her lip. "Surely Ilúvatar wouldn't - "

"I don't know what Eru Ilúvatar might do," Mairon says, "and neither does anyone else. _In the beginning_ \- "

He switches briefly into Valarin, harsh and resonant. The words are bright, and sharp; vastness brought to a terrible burning focus; empty dark space, directionless; they convey an unsight and unhearing, qualia forced upon syllables that will hardly bear them, the language of the indescribable -

Nacindë flinches, recoiling; when she looks back to him, Mairon is watching her with a cool smile, amused.

"If you can say what action _it_ might take," he says, "your abilities are rather superior to mine. And to Manwë Súlimo's, I suspect."

"Then _Curufinwë_ \- " Nacindë starts; and brings her hand to her mouth for a moment, fingers trembling, before slamming it down on the stone beside her in a crack of sound. "Why didn't you _do_ something - "

"And get caught up in _that_?" Mairon asks; his eyes are hard, all amusement gone. "What have you done yourself, Nacindë? You chose to let your husband go his own way; it's no responsibility of mine if you regret it."

" _You_ \- " Nacindë hisses between her teeth, and visibly reins in her temper. "Yes. That's fair; it's not _you_ I'm angry with. But - Tyelpe - "

" _Tyelperinquar_ swore no oaths. I hope you're not about to insult both of us by asking me to _look after him_ , or something of that sort."

"I expect," Nacindë says, with dignity, "that my son will behave like the adult he is; and you, doubtless, will do as you please, regardless of what I tell you. Although - if it's as bad as you say - "

Mairon - shrugs, eyes narrowed in thought.

"I did _mean_ it," he says, "when I said I didn't _know_. It goes both ways, Nacindë. The Everlasting Darkness is only one side of it. _Not Doom itself shall defend him_ \- there's power _there_ , too. Only Eru knows what the consequences will be - and I mean that entirely literally, as these things go."

***

The wind blows cold from across the ocean, salt-scented and clean. In the distance, waves glitter in the darkness, the breakers coming in white with foam.

"My father Finwë was your friend, too," Fëanáro is saying, gesturing sharply with his hands, face pale and set with anger, "and if _you_ will continue to dwell in the land of his murderer's kin, and trust in them to revenge him, while they still sit idle upon the White Mountain, _I_ will not - "

Olwë hears Fëanáro outside, in an open square carved out of the harbour rock; beyond the pale stone balconies, steps lead down to the shore, where fishing-boats lie moored. Further on, the swan-ships stand tall at the docks, white and gold, with eyes of black jet gleaming at their prows.

There are lamps, here and there; but for the most part, the court is lit by starlight. The Falmari occupy padded couches or seat themselves on scattered cushions and woven mats: in their midst, Olwë sits beside his queen, a crown of coral and pearls set upon his silver hair.

Olwë's eyes are on Fëanáro; but his queen gazes, thoughtfully, towards Mairon, standing towards the back of the Noldorin delegation, quiet and intent; and there is something unreadable in her face.

"Fëanáro," Olwë says. "Finwë _was_ my friend, and I grieve for him; and I would not see his son and his people cast themselves into danger." Beside him, his queen's attention remains unchanged; but her hand shifts, to press, lightly, against his back. "Remember you are not the only ones to have suffered - "

"My father, too, recalled Elwë," Fëanáro says. "I suppose it should surprise me less, that the man who would abandon his own brother would abandon friendship also."

For a moment, there is silence, absolute, even the sound of the waves seeming to fade; then a rush of noise, the Falmari starting to speak in shock and anger; the Noldor around Fëanáro exchanging their own glances and hasty whispers.

Olwë's own face remains impassive, although a shadow touches his eyes. He raises a hand, and the court quietens, faces turning towards him.

"For the sake of your grief, Fëanáro," he says, "I will forgive you that. Go home, Curufinwë Finwion. Mourn your father, and wait for his return; for you, at least, have that comfort. Have faith that this night, too, will come to an end, and the light will rise once more."

Fëanáro - laughs; a bitter, angry sound.

"There was once light here," he says, "but the Valar themselves begged _me_ for its return; and that lying thief Moringotto stole it. Olwë, in token of what was once between our peoples, will you not aid us, at least?

"This city where we stand was carved by Noldorin hands; but it is we who now have need of your craft, and the ships of your making - "

"They are of our making," Olwë says, "and it was not the Noldor who taught us this craft, but Ulmo and Ossë. The Lords of the Sea, too, have always been our friends."

"Then will you not teach _us_ , at least - " Fëanáro says, a ragged note now sounding in his voice; he starts to pace, catches himself. "What friendship is it, to bring us here and trap us -for the Valar to say they will not hinder us, but refuse us all aid that might bring us over the sea across which they stole our parents?"

"If you refuse the counsel of the Valar - " Olwë begins - but then stops, abruptly, as his queen touches his hand, and rises to her feet.

"Fëanáro," she says, as all the Elves look towards her, Fëanáro's own eyes intent upon her face. Only a little less tall than Olwë himself, the queen of the Sea-elves wears no crown; but her dark hair is bound up with ribbons of golden sea-silk, and a collar of abalone gleams lustrous at her throat. "Are we your friends? Then you must ask, and not demand so ungraciously. It is you who now have need of what we can give; and it is in our power, to give or to refuse."

Fëanáro's eyes flash, pride insulted; but she continues on before he can speak. Older than her husband, the queen speaks with a singer's resonant voice, used to commanding attention; she ignores Fëanáro's reaction with ease.

"But I do remember Elwë; and I remember my other kin, who loved Middle-earth too well, and would not leave it. And they live where he whom you have named the Enemy now walks, and his creature with him."

She glances across at her husband; holds his gaze for a moment, something passing between them, until Olwë nods, slightly, giving his accord.

"We will not go against the bidding of the Valar. But- " Her eyes slide, briefly, back to Mairon. "I do not think even the Ainur have always been of one mind on this matter; and it was our own Lord Ulmo who once held that it would have been better for us to remain in Middle-earth, where we had our first awakening."

The queen spreads her hands, eyes bright in the dim starlight, as the Noldor present wait tensely; even Fëanáro, now standing very still, intent upon her words.

"Our ships will remain ours. But - I remember my kin; and I remember friendship; and I remember you, Fëanáro, when you were a child Finwë set upon my knee. If you wish to leave, then we will take you."

Her words hang in the air; until Fëanáro, without taking his gaze from hers, inclines his head in acknowledgement and gratitude, and Maitimo, standing beside him, lets out a low breath of relief.

***

Sea; stars; the slap of waves against the hull.

The ship is crowded, families packed together for the voyage, as many as the vessel can carry and still have space to store provisions and fresh water enough to reach Middle-earth. The few Falmar volunteers to aid the inexperienced Noldorin sailors - and crew the ships for their return - have guessed at the currents of seas only the oldest among them now know by memory; set a course as best they can.

Below decks, the space has been sectioned off by draped sailcloth, to give such privacy as is available. Sound still carries, and a low murmur of voices can be heard: towards the aft of the ship, someone is singing to their children, soft and sweet. And over it all, the continual sound of wind and water, a restless wash of noise.

Sitting cross-legged at one end of the bedroll, Tyelperinquar's head resting on his thigh, Mairon is absently plaiting sections of Tyelperinquar's hair in the lamplight that filters through the canvas, pausing occasionally to comb out tangles left by the salt breeze.

"It's an interesting problem, actually," he says. "You can determine the north-south position easily enough by observation of the stars, but calculating how far east we've come against a chart seems to be significantly more difficult."

"If you had a more accurate way to keep time - " Tyelperinquar starts, and then yawns, eyelids fluttering. Glancing down at him, Mairon's hands still, briefly; he smooths his fingers back from Tyelperinquar's temple, eyes softening at Tyelperinquar's pleased hum.

Quiet, for a moment, then:

"I was going to ask," Tyelperinquar says, sleep blurring his voice, "if we were doing better than you expected. But I don't think you'd be here unless _you_ thought we could win, as well, would you."

Mairon - frowns, tugging at strands of hair a little harder than necessary. "I said I'd _help_ , Tyelperinquar. That doesn't mean I think this is a _good idea_."

"Mm," Tyelperinquar says; and then sighs, and levers himself up, twisting round to sit facing the other. "It's not that I don't think you'd do things for _me_ , of course. But - I _know_ you, Mairon. If you thought we didn't have a _chance_ , you'd still be in Valinor; and I suspect you'd have found a way to make sure _I_ was, as well."

"You clearly have a high estimation of my abilities."

"I notice that's not actually a denial."

They meet each other's eyes; Mairon half-smiles, but his gaze is calculating.

"You do know the hard part's still to come, Tyelpe," he says, very calm. "You haven't faced Melkor. I don't know if you can."

"Yes. But there's something you're not saying."

Mairon - sighs, and drops his gaze, reaching out to take Tyelperinquar's hand in his own, linking their fingers together; studies it for a moment, expression distant.

"That scene at Formenos was nothing new, you know," he says; giving no indication of having noticed Tyelperinquar's sudden tension at his words, though his grasp tightens, a little. "Everything Melkor touched, he broke and destroyed; what he left behind was chaos and wreckage. Only his own creations meant anything to him; the rest was worthless."

He raises his eyes again, golden in the dim light.

"But he _took_ the Silmarils. Námo himself said the fate of Arda lies within them; and what Námo says is truth, when he deigns to speak. And it was Fëanáro who made the Silmarils, not the Valar."

A tilt of the head, hair spilling past his shoulders.

"Don't mistake me, Tyelpe. I don't think it's a _good_ chance. But there's _something_ there."

They watch each other, Tyelperinquar's own grey eyes thoughtful; he hesitates, seeming about to speak, several times.

" _Don't_ say that to Grandfather," he says, at length. "I don't know what he'd make of it at all."

"I can assure you I had no intention of doing so," Mairon says, giving Tyelperinquar a sardonic look.

"Yes, alright, understood," Tyelperinquar says, after a brief pause; Mairon considers him for a moment, and then tilts his head in acknowledgement, relaxing. He raises Tyelperinquar's hand in his own; presses his mouth to the wrist, something contemplative still lingering in his expression.

"So are you - " Tyelperinquar starts to say, again; and then stops, eyes half-closing and a shudder running down his back, as Mairon turns his head and bites at the soft skin at the base of Tyelperinquar's palm, expression unchanged.

" _Later_ ," he says. "I'm not going to plan Melkor's defeat within the next hour."

"I think," Tyelperinquar says, "that the word you're looking for is _we_."

They meet each other's eyes, and Mairon half-smiles again, more warmly this time, before moving forwards, shifting to his knees and leaning in to close the distance between them; Tyelperinquar raising his own hands to pull the other closer, letting out a soft sound of pleasure as their mouths join.

***

Elsewhere: in Middle-earth.

The world is dark. But here, on the cold northern coasts of Beleriand, darkness itself is swallowed up in unlight: a black nothingness that steals warmth and perception and sensation, hungry and clinging.

Ungweliantë is grown vast. Gorged on substance, she fattens; increases; is a shape something like a spider and something like a wound that bleeds emptiness.

Her spinnerets weave and weave.

In her grasp, the god struggles. The echoes of it strike the world, crash like thunder; fall and fade into her webs, softened, made vague with formless shadows.

 _I will have what was promised_ , says the spider. Her words are unspeech, painful; she has no language, shapes them from the void that is the centre of herself, that she is always feeding. _Or I will have you, and swallow you whole. Come to me, now._

The threads of darkness continue to pour out. The spider approaches.

But there is something -

 _Who are you?_ the spider asks.

Fire and light; a flame in the darkness, searing, too bright to be overwhelmed. It runs through the webs like wildfire, burning them like silk, leaving a drift of white ashes behind it.

Ungweliantë keens, retreating. She herself is untouched. But the cautious calculation that preserved her for long ages in the shadows does not move her to resistance now.

In the midst of the conflagration, a woman walks like a flame, tall and blazing, surrounded by devastation; she is something like lightning. Something like a fallen star.

"Go!" says Arien, raising a hand in warning.

A hesitation.

 _I will go_ , Ungweliantë says. _But the jewels are mine. I was promised. I will have them_.

Fire leaps. The spider creeps away, repairing her webs as she moves, spinning the unlight around her, hiding and concealing.

Arien turns from her; and bows, deeply, the bright head brought low.

"My lord," she says, her gaze downturned in respect. "Long ages have passed. But your servants wait for you still."

Freed from Ungweliantë's bindings, Melkor restores himself; takes on something like elven form, great and terrible, a shape massive and weighted with force. Beneath his feet, the ground cracks; melts, glassy, even as the air cools and freezes, the wind howling with ice-crystals sharp enough to lacerate.

He is diminished: weakened, where Ungweliantë was made greater. But he is a Power still, and before him, Arien trembles in submission.

"Arien," he says, his voice deep and resonant. "Your King is returned to you. And look! what treasure he brings."

The god opens his hand, and living light brighter than Arien's blossoms inside it; shines through its casket and sings out, radiant, unstained in its splendour.

Cautiously, Arien raises her head; the light reflects from her eyes, brightening them to a white-hot flare.

"Now," Melkor says. "There is much to do, and much to discuss. Let us begin at once."

Fire burning around her, slowly, Arien begins to smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look at [this gorgeous illustration](http://corinthian-13.tumblr.com/post/157658947433/i-wish-i-have-the-time-to-draw-this-entire-fic) of Mairon and Tyelpe arguing by corinthian-13!


End file.
